


In praises of bad clocks

by Xou



Category: Forever (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Depression, Gen, I'm Sorry, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-20 14:18:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3653514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xou/pseuds/Xou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyday in life, the same old routine pushes you around as if you're part of a mechanism, just another piece to the puzzle, just another gear for the clock.<br/>But when the clock stop working well, you just get stuck in a bad clock, with every little piece crushing you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In praises of bad clocks

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning: I already mentioned depression, anxiety and panic attack in the tags and this warning should not be taken lightly. I'm really serious here, if you're easily triggered, this may hit too close to home for you.  
> There's still light moments in this fic and sort of an happy ending, but the subjects are heavy and should be taken seriously.  
> Thanks.

In praise of bad clocks,

Still ticking even if they’re no longer working

 

 

MEEP MEEP MEEP.

He woke up, getting up on unsteady feet, not completely awake yet.

It was just like always: shaky, unsure, uncertainty at the edge of his vision, blurring everything together into the same old shade of gray.

_It doesn’t even matter anymore. It's the same old routine every day. Why should it even matter?_

He looked over at the time.

_Maybe a bit too early to wake up. I should change the time of my alarm clock.  Or change the whole device completely; it’s not working so well anymore..._

But he was too lazy to change the clock, even if it was a bad clock.

_Wake up, stand up. Do what you always have to do and it will be okay.  Right?_

He ate breakfast; the same old routine as every morning in a too-small apartment.  He made some tea, which he’d probably forget until it was too cold to drink anymore and grab coffee instead on the way to the morgue.

It was not his job that made the morning so gray and bland. It was the same old everyday life that made him bitter. Bitter about what, he couldn’t tell. But that’s just it, Lucas didn’t know what was wrong with him.

Wake up.  Get up and look around.

There was a lemon on the kitchen counter. It reminded him of the old saying, “ _when life gives you lemons, make lemonade_.” But the lemon was not getting juiced any time soon. It was a good lemon, a pet lemon; he had tamed it and it was not disturbing anyone, just staying put on the kitchen counter, so no need to move it.

 _And no need to feed it either, so yeah._  

A pet lemon is better than a goldfish, since all the animals Lucas had ever had seemed to die mysteriously. Some might recommend a pet rock, but he had, for the moment, a pet lemon. It was bright yellow, didn’t interact with him much, wasn’t troublesome, and would never hurt anyone. That made sense since it was, after all, a simple lemon.

_So wake up, get up and get to work.  It’s always the same. The same and yet... Everything hurts a little more each day._

He shouldn’t think like that. He was at work, he just had to smile and be cheerful, be happy, be... normal. It wasn’t normal to feel like he felt, so he kept it in, even if it was getting harder and harder.

Of course there were times he could smile and joke, could be happy-go-lucky without a care in the world. Those were the best times for him, when things were easy. Nothing hurting or causing him pain, nothing to cry about.

And then there were the other times. The moments he felt so broken and empty inside, his emotion scattered around and nothing making sense, because breathing was difficult and his mind was a mess.  Why did it have to be like this?  Why did he have to feel this way?

Everything was a strain. The air in his lungs, the noise of the city, the smile he had to wear. All of it was slowly killing him.

And yet, everything continued. The city was still a busy place, the cars still rushed past him as he walked, the birds still flew in his path, and the sun still hide under a blanket of clouds, like always. The world around Lucas was the same: in motion, functioning, ticking by, and it pushed him onward with it. He had to continue moving:  walk to the right to avoid getting hit by a cab, put a smile on his lips for that little old lady that saluted him almost every morning, be careful not to get boiling hot coffee on himself, and continue walking until arriving at his workplace. Past the doors, into the office. Just like that.

Everything was still moving, even if it felt like nothing was working.

It was like clockwork.  All the pieces were already in place without him having any say on where they should or would be.  Each event followed the next. Always the same mandatory movements, already decided, like the guts of a clock; each movement determined the next, with no surprise and no change in the routine, each cog pushed or pulled without independent drive or determination.

Time is infinite, but so very finite in human perception.  Time has no self-determination just as a clock doesn’t have any reason to tick.  Humans are a just a blink in time in the perspective of the universe. 

Time was to be endured until it stopped—for each person, anyway. The story was only ever finished if people assume it was about them. And maybe, if someone was stupid enough, they would try to make a reboot out of it with a new protagonist, new villains and a totally new quest that didn’t even make sense according to the previously establish universe and oh god, why were they making a new Star Wars again, he shouldn’t get his hopes up, it would only disappoint him and...

_What am I doing again? Oh, yes, getting the case files for today._

Lucas looked up at the clock on the wall to see how much longer until the end of the day.  He’d only been at work ten minutes.  The clock ticked, marching the hands along relentlessly. Clocks and their mechanisms really were fascinating things.

Even if all the pieces fit together, it only took one of them being broken for the whole system to fail, just like his routine.  One element, one small mistake and the whole façade, the whole charade, all of it would crumble with him.

His legs started shaking as his vision blurred, the hold on the cup of coffee in his hands grew a little tighter, just to get a grip on reality.  He slowly breathed in, breathed out.  No one would notice the small slip up, no one would—

 

"Lucas?"

... Or rather, no one would have noticed if the brunet didn't happen to work with what seemed the most perceptive man in New York City.

And so, the young man slowly turned his head to directly face his boss, who was watching him as if he was looking at a pathetic spectacle. Or, that was the impression that Lucas attributed to the look in Henry’s eyes.

"Yes, Henry?"

He didn't feel like trying to hide behind polite terms, even if they were in a working environment, the familiar name just slipped out of his lips without Lucas even realizing that they weren't on a first name basis.

 _Not yet anyway_...

His mind was so tired.

"You seemed to have been awfully fascinated by these drawer doors for quite some time now.  I was wondering if anything was bothering you?"

The sweet deep voice with British accent brought him once again back to earth as Lucas realized that he was, as a matter of fact, fixing a drawer door.

Only a short awkward laugh could escape him before he rambled, "Hum, yeah, it's... A cool door. A cool drawer door. Like you know. A cool drawer door. Or... I guess?"

This was only followed by silence from the doctor.

And so, he continued, "You know what, there's something really cool about this door. Like... You can open it.. Or—or not, OK, it's locked, never mind, but... You can usually open doors and that's cool. Or hum... Close them if they're open, like that's what makes a door a door you see? A-and just talking about doors, there's, like, different types and sizes and it's just... It's just really cool, you see? Or—"

"Thank you Lucas, I think that's quite enough about... doors."

As he was interrupted by his colleague, Lucas could detect a hint of...

_Is that pity in his eyes? Or maybe Henry is getting tired of me. Just like I’m tired of myself. Ugh, I don't want to be a bother to my boss. This is so frustrating, because even if I knew if I was the problem, I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me!_

Henry was always analyzing him and looking at him with those keen eyes. Why did the other man even do it?   

Since the first day they met, it had been like that. Henry just had to look at him and he would become a babbling awkward idiot, a thing that he was anyway, but he found it really annoying the way the British man destroyed all the walls he had formed around himself with just one stupid look and no, he was watching him again, had he zoned out again?!

"... You're doing it again. Listen, if you're still worked up over the last case, the criminal is behind bars. There’s no reason to lose sleep over this. Although I guess that with all the horror that comes with this profession, it's only logical to sometimes feel overwhelmed by all of this."

Lucas desperately tried to remember their last case.  Maybe it was that particularly gruesome murder, or maybe it was the person who put a Chucky mask on each of its victims—that one was pretty disturbing—but his mind drew a blank. To avoid staying silent he took a big breath and stuttered:

"I-I wasn’t afraid or anything, I…  I just had difficulty sleeping yesterday, OK? That's it and that's all, s-so there's no reason to go all Sherlock Holmes on me!"

And there it was again, that look. Henry was looking at him with that ''I know that is not the truth. You're completely transparent Lucas'' look. He really, really, really hated that look. Especially how sexy it was.

Because, yes, even if at first his attitude towards his boss was only admiration—okay, maybe a little hint of jealousy and fascination—now, more often than not he couldn’t help notice how attractive Henry was.  How deep his voice was, or how he would sound in really inappropriate situations that Lucas should not think about, especially when the object of his affection was in the same room, and that room just happened to be a morgue—not exactly the right place for this kind of fantasy. Unless a person was into that. No judgment here. Everyone has something or someone they fantasize about, such as, in the case of himself, British assistant chief medical examiners.  Or one, anyway.

But he completely denied the fact that, maybe, he had a tiny, itsy bitsy, enormous crush on his boss.

 _Nope. Not happening. Not now and not ever_ … _Damn it, I’m zoning out again, aren’t I?_

 

"You seem exhausted, go home and get some rest.  Understood?''

"But—"

"No _but_ s, you are going home, taking a nap, reading one of your comic books, or whatever you do in your free time.  Don't come back to this morgue until both your mind and body are ready to work again, do I make myself clear?''

"They are called graphic novels, Doc."

"I'm calling you a cab now if that’s all you have to say."

Before Henry could escape into his office, Lucas softly caught the end of one of his shirt cuffs, while looking at the floor, fascinated by the tiles, just to avoid the doctor eyes.

"Yes Lucas?"

_I can’t look at him, I can’t look at him, I can’t—_

"Thank you very much, Henry."

There. He said it. He just had to wait to be—

"You need the rest. Take care, Lucas."

Oh god, yes, he _definitely_ hated Henry’s keen eyes.

*******

 

The phone was ringing.

Or he was pretty sure the phone was ringing. His mind was so out of it, and he didn’t understand why his breathing was so short.

_What’s going on?_

He had no idea what was happening, what the ringing was, where the air in his lungs went— he had to calm down.

_CALM DOWN, CALM DOWN NOW!_

_Still breathing... still breathing. Open your eyes. Wake up._

_Why is everything blurry?_

Lucas was trying— trying to see where he was and what was happening, but everything around him was confusing and dark and he was pretty sure he had just passed out for a moment, but it was ok now, he was calm, he was calm, HE WAS CALM, he was still breathing, still breathing, still breathing...

He was lying down on his bed. What time was it? He tried to look, but no, his alarm clock decided that today was the day it was dying and not showing anything anymore.

Really, he wanted to curse bad clocks.

It was dark outside, so it was probably late. He was lying down on his bed, his laptop next to him and... Oh, his phone in his hands.

It had been ringing.

It had been, but not anymore, now it was silent again.

He hated answering the phone. That probably was what happens, he had a panic attack when it rang and he’d probably passed out for a few minutes. 

But he was ok. Now, he was ok, no longer panicking and freaking out, he was ok, he was still breathing. Still breathing. Still breathing. S-still...

Time was ticking by.

Even though the clock was silent he could feel it; time was ticking by.

He didn't know when it was, where it was, but time was passing by, and fast, as the rhythm of his breathing increased despite himself. He clenched his hands around his phone, closing his eyes to not see the darkness outside and inside of him, wishing to stop all of the noise outside his apartment. At least those sounds were for now drowning the voices in his head...

Voices talking about time.

Time ticking by, triggering the attack, time tripping out of control, tackling his head, his heart and the other important things, trace of a trance, nothing making any sense, take all of this and leave the rest, take-away, take away now, travelling by, transporting letters, escaping the madness, escaping the noise, the ticking. Ticking, tackling, towards time, toning, tambourining, thunder, toupee, tautology, taxi, Technicolor, technology, curse technology, bad clocks and all of it, curse his twisted mind, curse all the sounds outside and inside of him...

Painkillers in his hands.

The glass of water on the counter next to the pet-lemon.

It was watching him. He just had to smile a little for the fruit.

_Lemons are fruit, right?_

He was ok, everything was alright.

Water dripping on his feet.

Oh, he dropped the glass, didn't he? Well, it really didn't matter much; he was not wearing any socks, so no worries about wet feet. He could swallow the pills dry.

Back to the bed.

Back under the blankets.

Trying to be as small as possible.

As small as possible.

Let him disappear.

Let him disappear, just let him disappear, let him disappear, let him disappear, let him disappear, let him disappear, let him disappear, let him disappear, let him disappear...

But no. He was still here. He was still alive.

He was still breathing.  He wasn’t able to escape, was condemned to stay stuck here and suffer.

_Please, make it stop. Why does everything hurt?  WHY CAN'T ALL OF THIS STOP!??!?_

It was too hot under the bed cover. It was too hot with the warm breath escaping from his lungs and staying in the fortress of solitude that he created upon himself. The warm breath saturating the air with whatever he ate for dinner.  Did he even eat...? He couldn’t remember.

Not that it really mattered. Nothing mattered.

Nothing made sense anymore in his mismatched, messed up, puzzle-piece-missing mind of his.  Like his deceased goldfish, before the pet lemon replaced them, Lucas’ thoughts were going round and round. Circling until they died, without ever having any other purpose in life than turning round and round and round...

Maybe this was madness; he was nauseous from the whirling immobility. His thoughts were thick and slow, sluggish like sickly sweet molasses.

He couldn’t stay on top of his train of thought.  His train of thought was derailing, and he could not stay on it.

_You'd have to be pretty dumb to attempt to ride on top of a train anyway. Not even Henry would try that._

Especially not Henry.

But Lucas already knew he wasn’t the brightest—he had already established he was stupid, and it didn't bother him anymore. It had just became a sad truth in his eyes. A truth to cry for, a truth to die for. Black tainted the edge of his vision. Not enough air. The covers were suffocating him.

 

The phone rang.

The clock was still watching.  The cogs were moving, pushing, making him move.

''Y-Yes hello?''

His hands were shaking so much that he could barely hold the phone, but he had been able to answer. With luck it was just a recorded message, but in the middle of the night there weren’t many possibilities for who might call him—

''Yes, is that you Lucas? I tried to call earlier in the night to see if you were alright, but you weren’t picking up, so I tried again and...''

_Oh, Henry. You really picked a hell of a time, didn’t you? Henry, Henry, Henry..._

Even if he felt a certain joy in his heart at hearing Henry’s voice, the blood was still pumping too fast in his veins and he could not focus. He was even more of a mess now than he was before, he could not form any words in his brains, he could not form any words—

''Lucas, is everything alright?''

_Crap._

''Y-Yes, I'm fine, no worries. I-I was probably just sleeping. No need to worry, Doc. I'm fine, so... um...''

Silence fell between them. He wanted to talk, but he just could not get the guts to—

'Yes, Lucas?''

Once again, without even being face-to-face, Henry was reading him like a book. Not that it was a bad thing.

''Doc, what time is it?''

''A little after ten thirty. I know it's little late, but…  Well.  I can let you go—''

''No.  C-Can you just.... Stay with me a little longer?''

His hand was gripping the phone while the other was covering his mouth, not believing what he had just asked.

It was not proper. But he didn't want to be proper.

It was not appropriate. But he didn't want to be appropriate.

All he wanted was not to be alone.

''On the phone?''

''Y-yes. We don't have to talk or anything, I don't wanna talk, or maybe I just don't know what to say, because... I don't know why... So... C-Can you... Can you just stay?...''

He hated the trembling in his voice, and how small it sounded to his own ears.

''Sure thing, Lucas.''

He almost wanted to cry out of joy and had to catch a small whimper that threatened to escape his lips.

''T-Thank you. Thank you so much... Thank you so much, so s-so much....''

And so, they stayed in silence.

Lucas tried as much as possible to cry silently.

Henry never commented on any sounds he was making.

 

 

 

And eventually, light came up again.

 

 

 

Happy is the broken clock,

Because it let the light shine through.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> ... I'm so sorry.
> 
> Tittle inspired by one of William Kentridge art installation about time and space, also named ''In praise of bad clocks''.
> 
> The quote at the end is inspired by this one by Michel Audiard: ''Heureux sont les fêlés, car ils laisseront passer la lumière'' which roughly can be translate to : ''Happy are the broken-minds, because they will let light shine through.''  
> English is not my first language and yes, the art is mine.
> 
> A huge thanks for the opportunity to have let me write this sad little piece for Lucas Wahl appreciation week and thanks for reading this to the end.  
> AND ALSO REALLY IMPORTANT: Super special thanks to idelthoughts and washingwater for all the beta help and advices, it's really appreciated and this would not have been here whithout you two.


End file.
